The Cliff He Joined Me On
I had already signed up to volunteer for the preschool field trip to the zoo with my daughter’s class, and even if Mrs. Rose had been known for flexibility, which she was not, I couldn’t back out. Every parent went to these. I couldn’t let my kid, who already got the side eye from other moms for never wearing her coat outside when it was (gasp!) chilly, and from Mrs. R. for spending her naptime creeping to and from the Kleenex box on the far shelf and whispering to friends along the way, be the only one without someone. Besides, she was grieving too. She needed me there.
It would be brutal, I knew, like walking around without skin just waiting for someone to brush against the red raw layer of pain, poke a finger in it unknowingly. I painted on a smile, but remembered to skip the mascara. Even the waterproof ones perpetually bled embarrassing bruises under my eyes these days. I could smile through tears if I had to. Pinching the soft web of skin between my thumb and pointer finger with the sharp edge of my nails always helped draw the pain back in when it threatened to flow out.
I skirted in late and stuck close to my kid, wondering who knew, who had heard through the gossip mill. Maybe no one, maybe everyone. I couldn’t tell through their own glossy smiles flashing over straight white teeth. Part of me hoped they knew and just stayed away, sparing me the sympathy. Part of me hoped no one had a clue, and still stayed away, sparing me any surfacy small talk. I couldn’t handle that either.
As the morning passed on without threat, the polar bears and monkeys offering enough entertainment to distract from my throbbing heart, I thought maybe I’d get through the day alive and in one piece.
“Hey, can we sit by you?” Jarod, one of the dads I knew from last year, asked politely, suddenly appearing beside me and my daughter with two brown paper bags. I had just sat on the bright green grass as far away from the rest of the wily group of preschoolers and their parents as I could without looking like an antisocial lunatic.
I wanted to scream “No!” like a crazy person, but guilt slid through the tiny spaces between the giant boulders of grief and fear in my chest. He was just a nice guy. He and his wife had my older son over for a playdate last year. They were from California and seemed to miss it. Besides, he’s a guy, he’s not going to ask about anything more personal than sports and the weather. “Not at all,” I said, smiling, looking normal, like everything is fine. Not a care in the world. What a beautiful day! His son had already started following my daughter in somersaults around on the lawn.
“Congratulations!” he said as soon as he was settled. “My wife told me you’re pregnant with number three!”
My heart stopped. My stomach dropped. My body filled with a warm rush of panic. My fingernails found my soft flesh and dug hard and deep, waiting for some kind of internal relief. I wanted to run, to cry, to scream, to punch myself in the face to stop the gush of emotion threatening to explode from every crevice of my body. Or at least to give it another excuse. But I also wanted to be kind. It wasn’t this guy’s fault that he didn’t know and was trying to be friendly, probably wearing his own mask of sorts in the midst of the political jungle of preschool parents. He had no clue the cliff he just joined me on, but I had to get off of it one way or another. I could dive headfirst into the answer, or I could stumble and fall, smashing my head wide open on the way down. I chose to dive.
“I had a miscarriage, actually. A few weeks ago,” I said, the words coming out smooth, only a tiny hint of a tremor.
“Oh no,” he said, his face going white. He shook his head as if he knew he shouldn’t have said a damn word.
I had thought the same thing a million times myself. I should never have told anyone I was pregnant. Sure, I had passed the designated 12-week mark and had gotten all the way to fifteen weeks. It should have been safe. It should have been just fine.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, a tremor in his own voice.
“Thank you,” I said. And we both took a giant deep breath. He looked devastated and embarrassed.
“It’s okay. I’m glad you asked,” I finally said, the words coming out on their own. And as they did, I knew they were true.
“Oh gosh, no, that’s not, I’m sorry,” he stammered kindly, refusing to say anything simple or reassuring. Refusing to offer any fake “cheer-ups.” I found instantly that my chest felt lighter, and my breath passed through my lungs a little easier. I wasn’t disintegrating into the shattered mess I thought I was.
“I’m actually okay talking about it,” I said, tears pricking both of our eyes. When we finally made eye contact, and he looked like he was either going to run away or hug me, a bubble of laughter rose in my raw, aching throat, healing a tiny part of me. “Well, kind of,” I said, and we laughed.
